


The Shepard Experience

by AQLM



Category: Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Brothels, F/F, Light Angst, Porn with Feelings, Requited Love, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:08:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26503417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AQLM/pseuds/AQLM
Summary: The galaxy is in flames. The Reapers are advancing. Everyone looks to Shepard for her leadership and support. Much like the creators of the Shepard VI, the owners of brothels across the galaxy realize that what people need is a hero...or at least a hot prostitute who looks like her.Samara, long enamored of her commander, finds herself standing outside one such establishment. If she cannot have the woman she loves, she can at least have The Shepard Experience.This story is actually happy.
Relationships: Samara/Female Shepard (Mass Effect)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 23





	The Shepard Experience

Samara checked herself in the reflective metal on the side of the ship. She had appropriated this particular outfit from a young mercenary who eagerly stripped off her armor at Samara’s request. The asari decided streaking through the Citadel was preferable to dying clad among her companions. In the ill-fitting blue-yellow of this gang, the scuffed pistol at her side completing the look, she appeared to all but herself just another asari merc. An asari who would not be out of place in the underbelly of the citadel.

For tonight, Samara was going to a brothel. She came not to free unfortunates snared by ill fortune or slavers, nor did she empty an institution filled with corrupt maidens who parted their patrons from their cash, wits, and occasionally lives. Tonight the visit was purposeful. She was going for The Shepard Experience.

Samara had believed the Normandy crew engaged in bawdy jesting when they brought up The Shepard Experience during the party. Certainly the broad smiles and cackling laugh from Joker implied a certain amount of levity. Yet when Garrus became the primary conveyor of information, she knew truth was behind the laughter.

He sat with a clawed hand around his horrified girlfriend, describing in excruciating detail – as only a sniper could – the nature of the experience. Shepard’s personality cult had become so immense that mere VI copies and military imposters were insufficient. No, the galaxy was so anxious for Shepard’s presence that multiple places of ill repute had begun offering what they colloquially called the Shepard Experience.

“Yeah, I’ve heard of it,” smirked Vega to the incredulous crowd. “You go in, they bring you a woman who looks like Lola here. Blonde hair, Alliance uniform, badass attitude, rippling muscles. And unlike the actual Shepard, she’ll take her clothes off for someone other than a certain turian.” 

“Oh my god,” shouted Ashley, throwing her hands up in exaggerated horror. “Does the alliance know we’re diverting military supplies to hookers?”

“For a handful of credits,” concluded Garrus, “you too can experience what I do every- hey! Hey!” The actual Myra Shepard became sick of this terrible joke at her expense and resorted to familiar violence to stop Garrus’ story.

The holosphere known as Glyph floated blithely by. “If you would like, I can provide a searchable index of institutions offering the Shepard Experience. They will include prices, ratings, and availability.”

Liara groaned and slid down into the overstuffed cushions. “Thank you, Glyph. That…was not necessary.”

“Shall I purge it from my databanks?”

“No, keep it,” said Joker. “Hell, bring them up right now.”

Above Shepard’s miserable protests, Glyph displayed a running list of reviews on the TV and the crew took turns reading the reviews. 

“6/10. The sex was amazing but the woman didn’t look enough like Shepard. If I wanted to sleep with a generic human, I wouldn’t have paid,” Miranda paused and her voice accented upwards. “Another five thousand credits?”

“Damn. I bet we can finance another dreadnaught if we skim the profits off that place.” Jack interrupted. “Give me the address.”

“Glyph, do NOT give her that address,” countermanded Liara, waving her hands and leaping off the couch. “Refrain from providing any information to Jack without my approval.”

“Of course, Dr. T’Soni.” The VI bobbed apologetically in front of the scowling biotic as EDI continued the reading.

“2/10. Pretty sure the real Shepard isn’t an asari in a blonde wig. Avoid. Got a refund.” EDI blinked her synthetics eyes. “If the experience was completely incorrect, why give it two stars? I find this rating illogical.”

Joker took up the next review, inflecting his voice in a hollow, stilted fashion. “9/10. This one found Shepard’s embrace pleasurable and the conversation stimulating. This one finds himself drawn to supporting the war effort.”

The crew ran through the reviews, dozens of zings at Shepard’s expense singing past her as the commander buried herself into Garrus’ arms. She eventually sighed.

“Listen, I think it’s weird, but if people are more willing to fight the Reapers if some…slutty version of me gets them off, I’m all for it.” She stood and straightened her clothing. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, the real Shepard is going to get a drink.”

The party eventually wound down and Samara took her leave to walk along the ward. The Shepard Experience.

She had fallen desperately in love with Myra during their time together. Shepard had never known, of course. Garrus had been her desire and her only need since before Samara came aboard. 

Samara had been forced into terrible intimacy with her commander when she shared her awful secret and the shame she bore. Shepard, true to her way, had taken it in stride. She had not questioned the plan, had not flinched when Morinth died, and had not overstayed her welcome after the mission was through.

Samara wanted more of those long talks in front of the windows of the Normandy, but Shepard always seemed inquisitive but distant, kind and respectful without being pushy. The connection was perhaps magnified in Samara’s aching mind. It was foolish for love to sprout from such meager soil, but it burned nonetheless. Now she was wandering the streets like a lovesick maiden. 

The end of the world was near, or at least that was what everyone said. That sort of desperation often led to rash acts, especially when it came to coupling. Breathless declarations of undying love were easier to make when death was right around the corner.

She indulged her weakness for the first time in centuries. The ways of the justicar were fading. The words that found themselves stuck behind her teeth for two years always threatened to overtake her sense. Perhaps a safe room with a surrogate would let her find peace in the final days of her life.

…which is how she found herself in borrowed armor, gazing uncomfortably at the tasteful yet tawdry front of this particular house of ill repute. A few patrons slipped by her or sauntered out. There was no slinking or hiding of the face behind a mask. No one felt ashamed of slaking their needs. 

Samara bundled the armor close and walked into the lobby. A young asari, modestly dressed in floor-length dark green, smiled as Samara approached. 

“Welcome, soldier. Have you come to rest from our fight against the Reapers?” She softly gestured at the weapon by Samara’s side. “Many here would be honored to welcome you into their beds.”

Samara squelched the comment about such comforts coming at a price in credits. She opened her mouth and quickly changed her voice to be higher pitched, less certain, more mercenary.

“I’m here for, uh, the Shepard Experience? I have a reservation.” 

The asari beamed and bowed. “Yes, yes. So many have eagerly enjoyed our ‘commander’.” She made a pair of quote marks in the air. “Please, let me show you upstairs.”

Her armor made heavy footfalls on the solid metal stairs as she followed her host. Thick tapestries demonstrating all manner of interspecies copulation muffled the sound somewhat. The lights cast a comforting orange glow and the soft hum that permeated the citadel was all but absent. It was a sensual sanctuary…at least until they reached the third floor. 

They opened onto a bare metal floor with exposed girders and stacks of weapons crates emblazoned with the unmistakable alliance logo. A few cables snaked across the floor and harsh fluorescent lights made her skin appear a sickly, washed-out blue. A sliding bulkhead was painted with jarring stripes that perfectly emulated the coloration of the Normandy. It was absolutely and hysterically real. Samara swallowed, torn between laughing in disbelief and shouting in outrage. 

Her gaping mouth triggered her host’s conversation. “Within you will find the Commander Shepard. She will welcome you, as a soldier, as a visitor, as an intruder, as a lover. You will set the tone. She will respond. You may bring your weapon. You may choose not to. What goes on beyond that door is the intersection between truth and fiction.”

Her speech concluded, the asari bowed once more and descended the steps, the ruffled hem of her dress whispering on the bulkhead as she left.

Samara flexed her fingers around the pistol. As an intruder. A human trained in combat within a brothel? There were certainly those who resented Shepard for her time with Cerberus, but who would assassinate a hooker? Who would engage in that horrifying fantasy? Samara recounted hundreds who would do just that and let the matter rest. What she wanted was far less violent. 

She pounded her hand on the seam of the bulkhead. It smoothly opened with a metallic grinding sound and she walked forward into a more than passable representation of an imagined commander’s quarter. The door shut behind her with a slam. In the offset light of the cabin replica sat a woman at a desk. Equipment, weapons, and knickknacks covered the surface and she peered over a pad in her hand, not looking up. Samara took a moment to appreciate the detail. The hum of the Normandy’s engines, the glow of the navigation displays, even the off-grey color of the carpeting were all rendered in exquisite detail.

Samara took a step in, summoning a biotic field around herself. She did not know why. The woman behind the desk, this counterfeit Shepard, would not attack. On the other hand, Samara felt naked without her justicar leathers, without her command, without her control. Silence remained between the two of them.

Samara looked over her woman. She wore an alliance uniform, rumpled and broken in like Myra’s daily wear. Her hair was almost that soft-white blonde she was told was uncommon amongst the humans. Her posture, relaxed but controlled, was also familiar. Yes, this experience was very much worth its price.

She swallowed and broke the silence. “Commander Shepard.”

The woman looked up from her desk and Samara caught her breath. The resemblance was uncanny. Yes, her face was a little softer, her eyes not quite the same shade of blue, her hands more lithe than Shepard’s, but it was close enough that Samara’s heart fluttered in anxious anticipation.

“Yes.” The woman who would be Shepard placed the pad down on the desk. “I was told to expect you.” Her nostrils flared as she bent forward. “You have come to fight the reapers.”

Samara remembered that was the scenario she had created. A soldier looking to be recruited into the fight. A beautiful reversal of their original meeting. Here she was seeking acceptance into the war instead of being dragged into a suicide mission.

“I have, Commander. They are a worthy-“ she quickly stopped the justicar phrasing. “An incredible foe. The worst the galaxy has seen. I need to be there on the front lines.”

“And you have military training? You look like a dancer who dressed up in her sister’s merc gear.” Shepard flicked her finger at Samara. “I don’t feel like sending soldiers out to die without reason.”

Samara blinked at the insult. “I have many years of combat training. I am…newly part of this merc band.” It was very reminiscent of her prickly commander, whose temper was legendarily short.

“Good.” The prostitute leaned back in her chair. “I’ll send you a list of targets. We’ll ship you out with the next alliance band.” She nodded once, stabilized herself at the desk, and bent her head down. “Nice to see the asari finally getting into the war. Dismissed.”

Samara stood there sweating in the borrowed armor. This was not the interaction she had expected. Very accurate, of course, but…insufficient. She remembered the matron’s admonishment about what Samara could expect from The Shepard Experience. Samara found her voice from her disquiet.

“Actually, commander, we served together previously in the fight against the collectors.”

The prostitute placed the pad down on the desk and pushed it aside, scanning Samara’s face and bearing for her next cue. It was a role she had to play, Samara chided herself. Perhaps more context would be needed – few knew of the suicide mission, after all.

“I know,” said the woman in Shepard’s uniform. “I recruited you personally. I heard of your mercenary talents and knew you would be a crucial part of my plan.” 

Samara took a breath and played the part in return. “Then why imply that I was wasn’t a seasoned warrior?”

The Shepard stand-in smirked and shrugged. “You come to my office and pretend to be a fresh-off-her-maiden voyage asari. I figured you would let me know your reasons.” She stood up from the desk and leaned forward, pressing her hands on the surface. Taller than her Shepard, too. “So what are they?”

Samara saw the opening. She fought her emotions. She fought the self-control and discretion she had always exercised. She fought her embarrassment. “I needed…I need…to tell you…” She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping that losing one sense would make her less afraid.

“When we were together…on the mission…” Samara swallowed her words, playing over the sentences she had repeated in her head since the day she left the Normandy.

The prostitute made an all-too-accurate sound of annoyance and impatience. Samara wondered if part of The Shepard Experience had included bugging the Normandy’s briefing room when Shepard was talking to Jacob and Miranda.

“I…I came…to view you as more…” Samara’s explanation crumbled away and she clenched her fists. She had not the wordplay or the experience to give her rationale. She couldn’t bring the artifice. 

Another sound and the slap of a pad on a metal desk. “Soldier, I do not have time to hear you fumble with intel. Say your piece or get back into the fight.” 

She opened her eyes and watched the human in front of her set her mouth into a hard line.

“I fell in love with you,” Samara’s stammer metamorphosized into a shout. 

The prostitute walked around her desk and stood in front of Samara. The real Shepard would have barely reached Samara’s neck but this one stood almost at her height. 

“Well then. That makes you one of about a billion asari who have sent me fan mail – complete with video I might add - over the extranet.” Samara dropped her head in shame as the not-commander continued.

“Humans too. Turian. Salarian. Hell…VORCHA. I could publish my own run of Fornax and not run out of material until the next cycle.”

A warm hand tipped Samara’s face back upwards. The not-Shepard was smiling. “And that’s a complement to me, not something to hide.” 

She cupped the side of Samara’s cheek and her expression softened into concern. “Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“You were with Garrus,” Samara breathed out. “And I do not do well in acknowledging my emotions until it is far too late.” 

“Hah, him? We all know I was just with him to make sure I had adequate gunplay on the Normandy. If I had a krogan, I would have let Garrus slide.”

Samara tilted her head back, the illusion briefly broken. “We did have a krogan, as well as a Drell assassin, an ancient human bounty hunter, and a geth sniper.”

The prostitute blinked twice at Normandy’s roster and then smoothly changed her tactic. “Fine, I admit he has his appeal. But so do you. I can’t believe I managed to keep my hands off you for that whole mission.”

“I did not make myself available to your charms.” The prostitute rolled her eyes. Samara could not tell if it was professional or feigned annoyance.

“I take it you have changed your mind?” 

The two women looked at each other and Samara felt the ‘no’ catch itself behind her teeth. Then Samara remembered the 3003rd Sutra, one that spoke of not denying a luxury if the outcome would be just for both giver and receiver. Granted, it was in a passage dealing specifically with division of fresh produce, but Samara decided that she would enjoy this forbidden fruit.

“Given all that may occur in the next few days, I believe continuing to resist what we both desire is imprudent.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

The prostitute’s kiss was bold and impulsive, quashing any of Samara’s remaining resistance with its soft demand. The human backed Samara up towards the wall and laced their fingers together, cobalt blue on porcelain white, and kept the kiss going until Samara was faint from desire and lack of oxygen. Oh, that satisfied smirk when the two parted and the not-Shepard pulled her hair back into a short ponytail, roping it up with a band she took from around her wrist.

“Let’s make up for lost time, shall we?” 

She tugged Samara towards the grey platform bed, kicking a crate of half-repaired weapons to the side and tapping her padd to standby. With practiced fingers, the prostitute unclipped the hidden latches on the merc armor and caught each piece as it came away from Samara’s body. Samara assisted by removing the thick boots that replaced her usual spike heels. The prostitute slid her uniform off and afforded Samara the view of her steel-white body. Then she guided Samara onto the bed and kissed her once more.

Hot breath washed across Samara’s neck and ear, leaving paradoxical chills. A different voice, the prostitute’s true dialect suspected Samara, gave its instructions in a lazy lilt. “Slow if you’re unsure, stop if you’re done.” Samara’s fleeting nod allowed the prostitute to continue.

Samara was flipped over and firm thumbs jabbed themselves into her shoulders. The sudden pain made her flinch and her biotics glowed. “Quit that,” said not-Shepard above the hum. “That’s no way to appreciate a massage. I’m not having sex with a slab of concrete, soldier.”

Samara settled down and the sharp movements began to unwind her muscles, bleeding out tension as the prostitute worked her magic. She doubted the real Shepard would have taken time to engage in such pleasantry but this was The Shepard Experience…any brothel worth its satin sheets would offer a massage. Especially at this price.

The talented and oh-so-fleet hands eased their way down Samara’s body. An ache arose in her core and began to flicker its way into her limbs and down between her legs. Desire. Yes. She had forgotten this burning glow. It crept its way into her consciousness like a sunrise dawning on a desolate moon. Eventually it enveloped her. She closed her eyes and sighed with relaxation.

The prostitute reached the base of her spine and slipped over both hips. She was able to maintain her composure. The hands massaged their way lower, pushing the tension away from her thighs. When they began to slip between her legs, she tensed and did not relax when the pressure was removed. She could not catch her breath even with meditative sutras drumming themselves behind her silent lips. She opened her eyes with blinking confusion.

Soft skin drew its way across her back and the prostitute draped herself across Samara’s back. A hand appeared in Samara’s field of vision, followed by the smiling face of her companion peering into her face.

“You okay honey?” That unfamiliar accent dispelled the illusion of her commander even as it came from this nearly identical visage.

“It’s nothing,” said Samara, blinking a few times. “You may continue, Shepard.”

“Mm.” The prostitute wrinkled her face and slid to the bed beside Samara. She propped herself up on one elbow and drew her fingers down the arch in Samara’s spine. Samara responded with a shiver that she instinctively repressed. The young woman shook her head and brushed the back of her hand across Samara’s face. She flinched and flushed in equal measures.

“It’s clear you’re not enjoying yourself,” said the not-Shepard. “Not surprising, given who you are.” She took a breath and whispered, “Justicar.”

“No. Wa-“ Samara stammered, sitting up and preparing a biotic field. This was anonymous, or so she had been promised. Was she led into a trap?

“Before you kill me, Justicar, give me 20 seconds to explain.” To her credit, the young human sat naked before someone who could murder her ten times over with a sort of bored bemusement. “I received a request. A strange one.” She tilted her head and ran her fingers through her pale hair, then paused. “Even for me.” She shook her head equivocally. “I was told I might receive an asari visitor, one who was…how did the message put it…blue as twilight, haunted as a derelict, terrifying as a supernova, silent as the void.” 

The young woman stood up and walked over to a sliding door in the wall, finding a pair of dark robes in the closet behind. She draped one around herself and cinched it at the waist, where the fluttering blue silk did almost nothing to conceal the body beneath. The one she handed to Samara was more modest and constructed of terrycloth. She slid it on Samara’s shoulders and walked away, letting Samara position it.

In this light, the imperfections that separated her from Shepard were more apparent. Softer, rounder, the voice without stringent command. Still, beautiful, and compelling. 

Samara swallowed. “I…see. And you were told I was a justicar.”

“Yep.” She shrugged, letting the robe dip off her shoulder for an instant before reflexively putting it back into place. “I’ve had my fair share of interesting customers. Not going to kiss and tell but I can describe the genitals of almost every ruler in certain societies. An asari justicar is another oddity.” She smiled and waved her hands in a dismissive way. “Regardless, I was given a message should you arrive.”

Samara wrapped the robe tightly around her body. She was chilled in the warm room and blushing fiercely at the casual conversation that revealed that she had been expected. The words to describe her were a combination of flattering and insulting. Haunted, beautiful, silent. It was a portrayal that sat as uncomfortably accurate in this counterfeit Normandy.

The prostitute broke Samara’s reverie with a polite cough. Samara startled upward and the prostitute continued. “I was to tell you if you didn’t find what you were looking for here, you should look next door.” With hesitant steps on bare feet, the not-Shepard walked to Samara and bent down to look her in the eye as she sat at the edge of the bed. “Justicar, whatever you need is not in my arms. Lovely as you are, I only like partners who want to be with me.” She stood and meandered to the door. “You can remain here as you’d like or you can go to whatever your destiny holds. Me? I’m going to get a drink.”

Alone in the cabin, Samara rubbed the back of her neck. She could strap back on the armor and leave through whatever hidden stairway allowed the average client to slink away. She could chase the not-Shepard and ask her to share a drink, perhaps tell her to reconsider her decision. She could go next door. 

Samara chose an intermediate and shimmied back into the ill-fitting merc armor. If her destiny were a shoot-out in a whorehouse, she’d at least face it with her weapon in hand. She checked the thermal clips, reverberated her biotics into an ice-blue barrier, and stepped outside the false cabin into another dimly lit hallway. This was clearly the rest of the brothel. Young women busied themselves going to and fro the rooms of their clients. Some were clad in diaphanous gowns of nigh-sheer silk, others in leathers, and others in fabric scraps that one could call undergarments if one had a penchant for over exaggeration. A curious eyebrow or two flicked by as she stood in the maroon-tinted hallways.

Next door.

The door beside her had a blue flower ringed with tiny stars emblazoned on the front. An old-style doorknob, ornate brass with abstract carvings, was all that prevented her from meeting her destiny. She fidgeted with it, uncharacteristically hesitant. Certainly there could be nothing worse behind that door than a woman who turned her down for not being excited enough.

She swallowed a dry mouth and turned the knob. The metal bolt that kept the door in place clicked away. Belatedly she called, “Excuse me,” realizing she could have interrupted something private. Her destiny might involve walking into a threesome. They should at least have the chance to put on pants.

A muddled, “Enter” ushered her inside. She pushed the door all the way open and sighed in surprised consternation. It was another replica of the Normandy, again Shepard’s cabin, again with a prostitute behind the desk counterfeiting her commander and working on some form of paperwork. The woman looked up and her and smiled.

“Samara.”

Samara gripped the doorknob hard enough to bend it from the frame. This was not a well-dressed whore. This was the actual Commander Myra Shepard. The actual Spectre, the actual leader of the allied forces, the actual woman who captured Samara’s heart so thoroughly that she was willing to have sex with a pale imitation to bleed the tension out of her skin.

“Come in. They will not like it if they have to replace the infrastructure again.” Samara stood and let her biotics vibrate with confused focus. Whatever trick was being played, she wanted no part of it.

Myra shook her head, closed her eyes, and raised her eyebrows in consternation. She pushed away from the desk and walked to the justicar on well-booted feet. In the yellow light of the room, Samara was able to compare the pose, stride, and appearance of this woman. It had to be Shepard or the best copy that money could buy. Maybe even a clone, again.

She took toe-to-toe with her ex-crewmate and reached out a pale hand. “Come in. I can explain everything but I will not do it if you stand in the hallway making a scene.” The hand closed into a pointed finger that gestured outside. Instinctively Samara shuffled inward, now less like an established warrior and more like a maiden being scolded for being out too late. This was oddly the feeling Shepard conjured more often than not.

Shepard pushed the door closed and slid a deadbolt into place. “Sit.” 

Samara found a chair of bent metal, scuffed and dented like any seen on the Normandy. She crossed her legs and tried to find words. Instead she found a bit of frightened anticipation. 

“How…are you here,” she ventured.

“It’s a long story.” Shepard combed her fingers through her ice-blonde hair and rubbed her brow. “Well, not that long.” She shrugged and smiled. “I meant what I said at the party. If having sex with some version of me helps with the war effort, I’m all for it. In fact, I’ve personally blessed most of the high-quality versions of The Shepard Experience.”

She winced and spread her fingers. “Not the asari in a blond wig, mind you. The vorcha one I personally shut down, then used my Spectre powers to burn the building to ashes and kill everyone who worked there.” She shuddered, made a face like she was dislodging something unpleasant from her throat, and continued. “In exchange for a cut of their profits, I make an incredible bargain. Once a week, some lucky patron gets a night with the *real* Shepard.”

Samara tried to find her jaw, which had dropped to the floor in raw shock, and form words with it. “You…you’re a pros-“

“No. I’m a proud leader of the allied forces against the Reapers,” snapped Myra. “This is a tactical move. I’m not selling my ass like a maiden on Omega.” She relaxed and chuckled. “It doesn’t hurt that I have had my fair share of what the galaxy has to offer. Including asari.”

She walked towards Samara and placed a hand on Samara’s armored shoulder. The other cupped Samara’s angular face with uncomfortable familiarity. Disarmed, Samara did not think to pull away.

“I’m not blind, Samara. I know your feelings for me. Hell, Garrus noticed them and he is as oblivious to matters of the heart as he is to high-quality humor. I was hoping you’d end up acting on your feelings so you could be my customer tonight.”

Samara rested against the cool palm stroking her cheek. It was a humiliating turn of events that was comforting at the same time. There was no longer a reason for her to hide, not when so many things were out in the open. A hidden love, a hidden desire was a simple expression now.

“Shepard. I do not know what to say.”

“Why not say yes?” Myra bent down and smirked. “Kiss me. Experience the real thing.” 

Samara grabbed Shepard’s shirt and dragged her down to a kiss that surprised her with its ferocity. She relished the soft lips and heat of Myra’s breath on her own face. When she let go, Myra stumbled back on a single black boot, shook her head in surprise, and grinned.

“Now that’s more like it. Get over here.” 

Samara stripped down with the real Shepard beside her. There was extraordinarily little eroticism in the act of undressing. It was a practical and fierce need to get what she had been aching for over the last three years. Myra sensed it too because as soon as she could Samara was flat on her back being groped by eager hands. Samara’s breasts were subjected to rough treatment that she did not know she missed until the teeth scraped lightly over her nipples. Arousal overwhelmed her and within seconds she was begging Myra to do more than merely tease her body.

The answer was a long slow kiss that started at the nape of Samara’s neck and stopped between Samara’s legs. Shepard did not wait for an invitation. She parted Samara’s azure and dove in with her tongue. Had this been anywhere but a brothel, Samara’s scream would have summoned a legion of C-Sec officers. Pleasure, denied for centuries, split out of her body in waves of wetness and heat. She was a creature of patience and restraint and she hoped to savor this culmination of her desire. Her body wished otherwise and she anxiously ground herself into Shepard’s mouth, searching for the physical expression that would push her over the edge.

Shepard was talented, patient, and unrelenting. Samara lost herself in her lover’s mouth, the perfect movements of her tongue, and way she dug her fingernails into Samara’s thighs. She wanted to hold back her peak, merely to savor it and bask in its glow, but her orgasm crashed down on her as surely as an avalanche. She screamed again, her voice growing hoarse as she rode the sensations until their phenomenal conclusion. 

She lay in the afterglow and stared at the ceiling in a haze of enjoyment and wonder. A pale face peered into her own with a brilliant smile of triumph. Shepard kissed Samara again and lay on top of her, curling up between her breasts and tracing shapes down Samara’s sides. Samara wrapped her arms around Shepard and buried herself in her hair.

“That was beyond words,” she managed. More minutes ticked by and then she remembered a part of the act she had not thought about in centuries.

“Myra, is there anything I can, ah, offer you?”

Shepard propped herself up on her elbows and touched her nose to Samara’s. “I do recall your saying something about, how did you put it, ‘Centuries of carefree sex’? Show me that practice makes perfect.”

“I may be a little rusty, but I am happy to oblige.”

A biotic lift later and Shepard was flat on her back, laughing as the vibration of the field dissipated. The giggles turned to delighted moans as Samara dredged up long-forgotten experience and busied herself with the unfamiliar body in front of her. Humans and asari were close enough in form and function that Samara needed only to adjust her technique a slightly to achieve their desired aims. The squeals, whispers, whimpers, cries, and sighs were achingly familiar and with her own mouth she devoted herself to her love. Myra’s orgasm rekindled Samara’s own desire and she struggled uncharacteristically with the need to satisfy herself while still letting her partner enjoy the soft, sweet moments after release. 

“What sweetheart. You want more?” Myra propped herself up on her elbows again and stared at the woman between her legs. The thin lips curled into a smile that ascertained all of Samara’s needs. “Get up here. I want to feel you against my body when I send you over again.”

“But Myra…don’t you want…”

Myra pulled a possessive leg across Samara’s lower body and pushed the two of them together. “I can tell when someone is distracted. Let me enjoy myself.”

Samara obliged and ground into the expectant fingers, climaxing again as Myra forced her to look her in the eye. It was hard to keep her eyes open and watch the washed out features of her partner contemplate every gasp and moment of collapsing restraint. Myra kissed her again and flopped on the bed beside her.

In the lifting haze of her pleasure, Samara felt the need to complicate matters.

“Shepard. I have enjoyed this deeply but,” Samara fumbled for words. “It is not merely physical desire that brought me here tonight.”

Shepard placed a finger on Samara’s lips. “Shh. I know. I can tell the difference. That is why I am here. We can have the night to explore those feelings and seeing where they leave us in the morning. And before you ask,” she tapped Samara’s mouth once more and drew a finger around her face. “If I didn’t get the say-so from Garrus, I’d be at home cleaning the mess you all left in my poor wrecked apartment last night. Now…again.”

The morning came in a blur of pleasure interspersed with fitful sleep. The brothel was loud, the bed uncomfortable, and the sensation of a warm body pushed against her back too enticing to let Samara sleep well. A morning knock on the door was accompanied by a thin slip of paper pushed into the middle of the room. Shepard rose and stretched.

“Looks like we’re being evicted. Mm, just a well. I need to ship out in a few hours.” She walked over to her gear, rifled around in it, and peered back at Samara.

Samara sat in the bed as well, trying a meditative pose that felt anything but. Her body was ravaged by pleasure, covered with bites and scratches, and smelt of sex and sweat. “I should do so as well though a shower would be pleasant.”

“Lucky for you, this room has a shower much like my own. Come on.” 

Skin to skin, they stood beneath the pulsing showerhead, fulfilling each other once more before scrubbing away the marks of their desire. Then back into the room and dressing for real, Shepard in her alliance fatigues and Samara into the ridiculous borrowed armor. Shepard snickered and shook her head but made no comment as Samara attempted to adjust her matron’s body into a maiden’s suit. 

Another long and silent look. “This is it,” said Shepard. The joviality in her voice was being bled out by the reality of what lay outside their door. “Probably my last time in here before we destroy the Reapers. Or get annihilated by them.”

She smirked and shrugged. Her face relaxed into a soft smile. “I was very glad it was with you, Samara.” A pause. “Where will you go?”

“To Thessia,” Samara replied. “We will make our stand in our homes. The Reapers will find the resistance still marches forth in spite of our initial defeat.” 

Another long look. “Myra-“ “Sam-“ They started at once and then halted. “You first,” commanded Shepard.

“If we win this war, if I stand successful above my foes, I will still feel as I do now. This night has been a confirmation of what I know. I know I love you.”

Myra walked forward and kissed Samara softly on the cheek. “Look me up after the war,” she whispered in a warm breath.

“But…what of Garrus?”

“Nah, he’ll be too hard to find. But if you find me, he will be nearby.” She pulled away and smoothed her hair back behind one ear. “Seriously. If I can rally a galaxy to defeat the Reapers, I can figure out how to love two people at once.” One more winning smile and she slipped out of the door.

Samara, grinning with a heart afire, went after her to whatever came next.


End file.
